


(Just a) Brilliant Disguise

by imperialhuxness



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: (but still crack), (crack with serious elements), (more like Crack with Feelings?), (no feminization), Crack, Deepthroating, Getting Back Together, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Makeup, Oral Sex, Post-Star Wars: The Last Jedi, Public Relations Debacle, based on a leaked image
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-12-26 01:47:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18273299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperialhuxness/pseuds/imperialhuxness
Summary: He’s refusing to be civil. He’s refusing to look Hux in the eye. He’s refusing to acknowledge he’s a flesh and blood carbon-based life form, the same as Hux.He’s wearing It, of course: the mask, or what’s left of it...The Supreme Leader fixes his mask. It turns out Hux might just appreciate his face.





	(Just a) Brilliant Disguise

**Author's Note:**

> So, this idea originated shortly after the initial mask repair rumors, I started writing it on Monday (25 March) after it worked itself out, then the promo poster was leaked on Wednesday (27 March), and here we are.
> 
> Disclaimer: This was supposed to be a Very Serious exploration of mask symbolism in SW, but derailed somewhere along the way into Hux Does His Boss’s Makeup. I’m not sure if I should apologize for that... Anyway, enjoy?

Hux slaps at the kettle as soon as it starts to whistle, reaching blindly across his desk to silence it without tearing his eyes from his datapad. Ren’s supposed _rough draft_ of an Empire Day speech glares defiantly up at him in black and blue. Impossibly, it is...not shit.

Three reads, in fact, and Hux still can’t find more wrong with it than two damn punctuation errors. He’s fixed them, of course, in vivid red, but further review has yielded nothing worse--orthographically, stylistically, or rhetorically.

Ren must have penned it on an _up_ day (as opposed to the _down_ ones he has even more frequently). It’s the only explanation for how he could churn out an exemplary address for the occasion without having attended so much as a single annual Order commemoration ceremony.

Of course, the speech between Hux’s elbows sounds nothing like the somber diatribes and recycled eulogies that have historically marked Empire Day across the fleet, that Hux himself has often delivered. But nor should it: at Hux’s suggestion, Empire Day, ABY 35, will mark the first planetside celebration in thirty years.

Hux remembers the last one, vaguely: a gargantuan holo of the Emperor under gray skies, parade formation and hoping the clouds wouldn’t burst; later, licking the residue of something sweet and pink off his fingers, as wiping them on his uniform was Not Regulation.

This year’s festivities--on Ganthel--should at least come with better weather, if not increased morale and a new sense of patriotism across all of their--of _Ren’s_ territories. That’s what Hux told Ren, anyway.

Surprisingly, Ren went along and agreed to deliver an address, following in Palpatine’s tradition. (It would have been inappropriately--transparently--assertive for Hux to suggest that he himself fill that particular void.)

At least at the time, Ren was quite amenable to the idea, even insisted on writing his own (apparently perfect) speech.

Sparing the document a final glance, Hux saves his two changes, attaches the encrypted file to a holomail message, and shoots it back to the Supreme Leader. Whatever. At least the second hour he’d allocated to revising this thing is now freed up.

He switches off his datapad screen and snags the kettle off its burner, then his empty mug and waiting teabag. The pungent Tarine aroma has barely started to rise from the water when his datapad chimes again.

Holomail notification. From the Supreme Leader. Flagged as urgent. (Because Ren sends them no other way.)

_Grand marshal--_

_you’ve attached the wrong document. This one only displays two changes. Resend with complete suggestions asap._

_KR_

It would seem he’s as surprised by the quality of his work as Hux is.

(Or he’s just expecting Hux to be disagreeable.)

Hux huffs steam off the top of his mug, but sets it down to respond.

_Supreme Leader:_

_That document reflects the full extent of my revisions. No further input at this stage, except to recommend practicing aloud to ensure smooth cadence and flow._

_GML A. Hux_

_First Order, High Command_

_Secure Com: 49346850687_

_“_ _Many calculations lead to victory, and few calculations to defeat.” --Vitiate_

Hux blows on his tea again, knocks back a single, scalding, bracing sip before Ren pings back, this time in the in-network chat application:

 

_Let me know when u are available to go over the address next cycle_

The tea’s still far too hot to drink, but Hux tips back another swallow, even the ceramic of the mug warm against his lips. It’s 2200 now, and he has briefings the first half of alpha shift tomorrow, then a holo meeting with three of the fleet admirals.

_Between 1200 and 1400_

_1300 then_

So Ren doesn’t want to meet for lunch. (Why would he?)

_My quarters_

Because he’s never once set foot in the impressive office Hux set up for him. On his own orders.

_Certainly_

 

End of conversation, or it should be. Hux takes another sip of tea, then straightens up his desk before standing and neatly pushing in his chair after him. Might as well use the extra hour for sleep. He’s going to fucking need it.

He’s halfway to the door when his datapad chimes in his coat pocket. It’s Ren again. Insatiable, that man.

 

_See u then._

_goodnight_

 

He does this somewhat regularly since his ascent to the throne--tries to test the professional veneer between them. Acts like a halfway courteous human being.

Hux always reciprocates cordially, constantly tracing over an uncrossable line.

_Good night, Supreme Leader_

  


-oOo-

 

At 1305 the next cycle, Hux finds himself seated across from Ren on one of two thin-cushioned durasteel chairs, in Ren’s excuse for a parlor (a table and chairs a few meters from his spartan bed). It’s cold as fuck in here, as always, and surely it wouldn’t be poor form to get up and grab his coat off the hook by the door.

It wouldn’t be any ruder than Ren himself is being. He’s refusing to be civil. He’s refusing to look Hux in the eye. He’s refusing to acknowledge he’s a flesh and blood carbon-based life form, the same as Hux.

He’s wearing It, of course: the mask, or what’s left of it.

Metallic red seams snake across the crown of it, through the silver slats across the eyes and brow, down to bisect the muzzle. They look like faultlines, like the whole thing could shatter at the slightest inclination.

Ren pieced it back together within two weeks of his ascent, and Hux has known better than to remark on it, even when he insists--maddeningly--upon wearing it even in one-on-one meetings.

Now, though, there’s no excuse for it.

Ren stares at him in silence, and despite the layers of metal, Hux can picture his expression: arrogant, appraising, smugly patient.

Hux bites back his annoyance, curls his lips into a faint but indulgent smile. “Supreme Leader, I would advise removing the mask to rehearse the address. Your facial expressions are as important to practice as your intonation.”

“No one’s going to see my facial expressions,” Ren replies, tone flat but incongruently soft, rounded at the edges in a way that Hux still finds jarring, coming from the metal.

The metal from which Ren is evidently refusing to be distinguished.

“What do you mean, _no one’s going to see your facial expressions_ ?” But Hux already knows the answer. “Surely you don’t intend to address the galaxy in… _that_.” Hux folds his hands to keep from gesturing dismissively at the garish headgear in question.

“Most of the galaxy has never seen me without it,” Ren retorts. “I plan to keep it that way.”

As the vocoder could apparently be neither repaired nor efficiently replaced, Ren’s voice still emerges from the mask more or less unaltered. It echoes faintly against the metal, lending his baritone an unfamiliar hollow ring. But there’s none of the mechanical static, nothing to sanitize his tone of feeling.

There’s no chance now of mistaking Ren for anything more than human. The patched-up mask is more like a veil than armor, theatrical and cosmetic.

Also cheap and inelegant and tacky and ridiculous. And completely and utterly _unpresentable_.

Hux isn’t a psytech. He could care less what kind of get-up Ren wants to waltz around the ship in. However, when it comes to the Order’s public image, he has _standards_. A reputation to uphold.

Nonetheless, Hux steadies his voice, smooths, over his expression, and goes for sympathetic.

“You wouldn’t be unrecognizable,” he tries, as if he really thinks the problem runs no deeper. Par for the dramatic course, he exaggerates slightly: “Plenty of people have seen you without it.”

“That was a mistake. That isn’t the kind of…” He trails off, leveling his gaze at Hux, apparent even from behind the mask. “... _public image_ we want to project,” he finishes, as if he’s been eavesdropping on Hux’s thoughts.

Hux ignores it, for the present: he for once has larger concerns.

 **“** Well,” he shoots back. “Neither is the implication that our budget is so tight the Supreme Leader has to wear rubbish on his head.”

“It isn’t rubbish,” Ren retorts, leaning forward slightly, as if to loom.

Hux doesn’t fucking care. This is ridiculous. He’s the second-most important being in the galaxy, and he’s arguing with a twenty-nine-year-old child about where and when he’s allowed to wear his homemade headgear.  


“Yes, it is,” Hux shoots back, tautly. “You discarded it in the turbolift on the _Supremacy_ , had the debris collected, then slapped it back together with some sort of…” For a moment, the offensive substance defies description. “...viscous paste.”

“Reinforced it,” Ren corrects, as if the thing had developed a stress fracture, rather than been bludgeoned halfway to oblivion. “Reinforced it with Esstran copper.”

Hux rolls his eyes. “Whatever it is, it’s red and lustrous and...looks like entrails.”

“It’s red and black. Order colors.”

“Entrail colors.”

Hux flushes as soon as it’s out of his mouth--he’s apparently stooping to Ren’s level of absurd argumentation. But Ren actually snorts at the remark--a short, stunted thing, like he’s realized mid-laugh that there’s nothing to muffle it.

After the moment it must take to sober entirely, he replies, “Still better than my face.” There’s a painfully forced blaseity to his tone.

So this is definitely about more than simply recovering his Vader Youth aesthetic. Hux barely represses a sigh. “What _about_ your face?”

There’s the new and negligible scar, of course, but there’s nothing else wrong with his face. It’s always seemed a perfectly adequate face to Hux, though he’s historically given far more attention to the more impressive zone of Ren’s body between his shoulders and his knees.

Ren shifts slightly, dipping his head in a nearly bashful way he seldom does when masked. “The mark from Starkiller. It hasn’t healed.”

“It’s hardly noticeable,” Hux lies, belatedly realizing that _hardly significant_ would be more truthful. “Compared to Palpatine and Snoke,” he amends, and knows better than to mention Vader, “you’re still the most attrac-- rather, _least disfigured_ legitimate galactic leader in recent history.”

Fortunately, Ren doesn’t seem to catch the slip. “It isn’t about my vanity, Grand Marshal.”

It’s bait, of course--Hux could have smelled it a lightyear away. But Ren has a way of cornering him. He comes just short of rolling his eyes, leans back to show his disinterest. “Then what is it about?”

“It’s a sign of weakness,” Ren says. “If I make a public appearance with _this--”_ He flicks his wrist in the vague direction of his right cheek. _“--_ branded into me, the Resistance will see they’ve...made a lasting impression.”

Hux’s rejoinder comes automatically. “Or the rest of the galaxy will see their Supreme Leader has shed blood for their security.”

“In that case, they’ll see I can bleed.”

The mask amplifies Ren’s heated tone, the words reverberating faintly through the stark room.

Hux purses his lips, considering. It’s a cover-up, clearly: Ren came to work every day for seven years with a bucket on his head long before he had any scarring to speak of.

But authentic sentiment or not, he raises a legitimate point.

“Very well,” Hux concedes. “The mask does look rather...imperturbable.” Hux pauses, and Ren slings up his left ankle to rest on his right knee, foot bouncing impatiently. Hux swallows. “But must it be _this mask_?”

“I do have so many others lying around,” Ren says, drily.

Hux manages to turn his huff of laughter into a long-suffering sigh. “Can you not have a new one made? We actually can afford it.”

Ren shrugs. “There’s no one to do it. And no time to find someone, since you waited so long to complain.”

 _Because I overestimated your capacity for critical thinking,_ Hux wants to say. _It won’t happen again._

But he knows better than to stoop a second time. “What about whoever made the original?”

“He saw my face back then,” Ren says, airily, still bouncing his foot. “He’s dead.”

“Of course,” Hux says, and tries not to feel special. He saw far more of Ren than his face, and here he is--alive, well, and having a conversation with a topographical map of Mustafar. (It doesn’t mean anything.)

Once the silence has stretched too long for comfort, Hux clears his throat. “Would you consider another style of helmet? We’ve an abundance of spare armor.”

“I’m not a trooper,” Ren says. He somehow manages to lend a rankling note of condescension to the blunt and obvious statement.

Hux ignores it, mostly.

“Then what about a pilot’s helmet?” he tries. “Or a hood like the Emperor’s?”

“I’m not just a pilot.” Ren’s foot stills. “And I’m not Palpatine.”

Hux pops his lips, clawing deep into his palm to keep from pinching the bridge of his nose or running an exasperated hand through his undeserving hair. “Well,” he says, after a moment, “if you can’t wear any _viable_ mask option, you’ll have to speak without it.”

“You don’t understand,” Ren shoots back, an unsteady edge to his voice that reminds Hux of his saber--the flicker and crackle and heat of it. “I have to wear it. I have to cover myself.”

“You cannot,” Hux insists, “not when it makes you look like you just…” He falters for something vile enough. “...dove into a trash compactor.”

For whatever reason, Ren’s fist clenches tighter at that, visibly straining the seams of his glove. “I _can’t_ ,” he says. “You won’t change my mind.”

“This is ridiculous,” Hux scoffs, with the high volume of vitriol warranted. “Absolutely ridiculous.”

“You won’t change my mind,” Ren repeats, that dangerous simmer back in his tone. “Come back when you’ve accepted that.” He nods toward the door. “Dismissed.”

A white-hot wave of anger surges through Hux at that, spiking his pulse and prickling his face with heat. He grits his teeth to hold back _fuck you_ , and instead rises with careful poise. He nods to Ren, then uncurls his fists as he heads for the door.

Hux has shrugged on his coat and is halfway into his first glove when Ren’s voice resounds from behind him, softer, sounding very nearly _lost_.

“I would if I could, Hux.”

Hux freezes at that, the tension draining from his frame, even as he knows that’s just what Ren intended with the use of his surname.

He does this sometimes, to catch Hux off-guard, the single, unadorned syllable like a dinner bell for some pitiful, lonely parasite deep inside him. The sad creature invariably lifts its head and peers about, as if wondering whether it could exist apart from the title and uniform it’s latched onto to survive.

Hux squelches it on reflex, and doesn’t answer Ren.

 

-oOo-

 

Well past 2300 the same cycle, Hux stands at his ‘fresher’s tap, replacing his facewash in the cabinet behind the mirror after a quick scrub and an almost-as-quick sonic.

A few daily reports remain to be reviewed--he’s still behind after the meeting with Ren--but at least he can do so from the comfort of his bed, in his robe, rather than his uniform. Before closing the cabinet, he pauses to tighten the slick black belt. When he glances back up, his gaze falls back to the third shelf.

Behind the facewash, the vial of astringent, the night cream, (and a less useful bottle of lube), sits the Solution. Both his hands fall to the countertop, and he nearly bursts out laughing, relief washing over him. It’s so damn _obvious_.

His array of skin-covering cosmetics has rotated to the back of his collection once more in the months since Crait and Snoke’s death. (He’d had to bring back one of each product--after nearly a decade with little use for them--to cover the reddish-purple outline of a single fingertip that fell above his collar. He keeps them available now, just in case.)

Sloane gave him his first product long ago, within forty-eight standard hours of an unpreventable incident with the Commandant, in exchange for a promise both to use it, and to report any further such incidents in a prompter fashion. _(“Commandant Hux and I have an understanding regarding this, Cadet. I am to be alerted when he’s violated it.”)_

Between the Commandant’s persistent neglect of his and Sloane’s arrangement and the normal pressures of the Academy, Hux had ample opportunity not only to use what Sloane gave him, but to clandestinely procure similar products suited to a variety of marks and wounds. Blending, blotting, powdering, smoothing over--it’s a far subtler mask than Ren’s ever was.

Hux leaves the cabinet door open and heads out of the ‘fresher for his datapad. He perches on the side of his bed and opens the chat application to last night’s conversation with Ren. His solution is viable (perfect, in fact), but several variables remain to be addressed.

 

_Supreme Leader--_

Ren pings back before he can get the next text out.

 

_Evening_

_\--if your wound were not visible,_

_would you consider foregoing the mask?_

 

_you’re really stuck on this_

 

_Would you?_

 

The ellipsis on Ren’s end bubbles on loop for a solid minute before six words appear:

 

_What did u have in mind_

_??_

 

It will take coherent paragraphs and far more typing than Hux as the energy for, half-dressed at close to 0000 hours, to explain it all.

And Ren will be able to figure it out once the products arrive in his quarters, at any rate.

 

_I’ll need a still, full-color holo of you_

The ellipsis blinks to life immediately, so Hux clarifies:

_To match up your skin tone_

 

The ellipsis vanishes, and it’s radio silence for the next ten minutes. Hux leaves the datapad briefly to straighten up the ‘fresher. He’s switched off the lights when his datapad chimes from the main chamber.

When Hux reaches it, an _Image delivered_ notification is flashing blue across the screen, and Hux swipes to open it. Staring back at him is an...alarmingly candid still.

Hux doesn’t know what he was expecting--perhaps a blurry close-up of Ren’s unmarred left cheek and jaw, or a one-fingered salute captioned _u can see my skin tone in this_ . At any rate,   _not_ both of Ren’s doe-eyes boring into the camera, not his full lips slightly parted, or the slight pinch of his brows, as if taking the picture required undue concentration.

The whole effect is entirely uncalled-for.

The lighting is adequate to capture his skin tone--little darker than Hux’s own--and to throw his dark lashes in sharp contrast against the skin, to accent the firm angle of his jawline and his overgrown nose. Only one ear is in the frame, the pinkish shell of it poking out between waves of dark hair.

The scar also looks angrier, but the effect of it is softened considerably by the fascinating collage of his other features. It isn’t a bad face, even separate from the high muscle mass and fantastic cock and ass attached to it.

Hux isn’t sure how long he’s been dutifully examining the image, when a translucent banner alert for a second message momentarily covers Ren’s forehead.

_Did u fall asleep??_

Fuck, how quick does he expect Hux to be.

Hux closes out of the image and back into the conversation, running his gaze over Ren’s side. _Oh._ It’s somehow been ten minutes.

_No_

_Supreme Leader_

_This will do_

_Thank you_

_Goodnight then?_

 

_Unless you needed something else_

 

The ellipsis flashes fitfully, stop and start for a while, before vanishing entirely. Hux watches the dead screen for several minutes even then, unsure what he’s expecting.

Finally, he exits the chat and opens the Holonet. If he orders everything now, it should arrive on the _Finalizer_ ’s next scheduled shipment, in two standard cycles. He finds the right tones with little second guessing. Ren’s face, it seems, is blazoned across his mind in vivid color.

 

-oOo-

 

Two standard cycles later, a spindly black-chrome protocol droid pages for entry to Hux’s chambers. It enters holding an unmarked plast package addressed to Hux’s ID number, rather than his name.

“Thank you, Kayfour,” Hux says, and takes the package to examine it, crossing the floor to set it on his desk. He flicks his knife out of his sleeve to break the seal, then resheathes it.

He extracts the products from the box one by one, taking inventory: a green contrast concealer, a standard concealer, a squeeze foundation, and a corrector crayon in _Warm Ivory_ ; a matte powder in _Nude_ ; and a silicon-based primer designed to smooth over scarring. Between the half-dozen items, two complementary blending sponges and a passable brush are included.

“Is everything as expected, sir?” K4XE hovers by Hux’s shoulder.

“Yes,” Hux replies, slipping the items gently back into the package and pressing down the flaps. “Deliver this _discreetly_ to the Supreme Leader’s chambers. Please,” he appends, on reflex.

“Right away, sir.”

-oOo-

 

The next morning, Hux awakens to an image alert, about twenty minutes before his first alarm. Possibly by some unconscious positive association left over from the last such notification, he doesn’t swear at the datapad, nor flip it over, nor silence it.

He swipes to open the message, finds a still of the outside of the package, label front and center, but both flaps gaping on the right--Ren’s already opened it. The caption beneath it is maddeningly _Ren_.

_This is ur id number_

_Right?_

_Yes_

_That’s what I ordered for you_

_I hope it suffices_

 

Hux stares groggily at the bright screen until his vision adjusts, and the alarm has started chiming. Ren still hasn’t responded. Before swinging his feet over the side of the bed, Hux sends another message, growing nervous.

 

_It’s still almost a mask_

 

Hux abandons his datapad in the swirl of sheets to head to the ‘fresher, but once he emerges, Ren’s replied.

 

_I might try it_

 

Shocking. Hux had been fully prepared to write the credits off as wasted, a nondescript incidental expense. Maybe this will have been worth it, after all.

 

_Excellent_

 

He isn’t expecting Ren to have any more to say, so he gets dressed without another glance at the datapad. Shift-change reports start flooding the device with the normal cacophony of alerts. He ignores them, for the time being, only skimming them once he collects his datapad to leave the room.

Turns out there’s another chat notification.

 

_I’d like to rehearse the address again today_

_Can u come @ 1400_

 

-oOo-

 

Hux goes at 1400.

Surprisingly, Ren’s wearing neither mask nor makeup, and actually stands when Hux enters, setting his datapad on the seat of his chair and powering it off.

“Have a seat,” he tells Hux, without sitting himself. He nods toward the empty chair Hux occupied last time, and Hux doesn’t bother removing gloves or coat before heading toward it.

He sinks onto the flimsy seat and crosses his legs, greatcoat spilling over the sides of the cushion. He laces his fingers and looks up at Ren expectantly, attempting to catch something of his expression. He’s more or less neutral, though, apparently already having adopted some kind of decorous air. Only his eyes, roaming Hux’s face at an almost urgent pace, betray anything.

“Ready when you are, Supreme Leader,” Hux says, after a moment.

Ren clears his throat and nods, stiffening noticeably before beginning.

It’s a brief speech, not much longer than Hux’s own most recent address, on Starkiller. Ren’s voice is steady, more or less level, only as impassioned as appropriate, even at his single reference to the _will of the Force._ He’s got it flawlessly memorized, never misses a beat.

But one wouldn’t know it by watching him.

In fact, the whole thing will come off disastrously to any being that happens to view it without audio.

It took a year of rough fucking before Ren even _began_ to seem comfortable in his own body, years ago, but all of that progress--having slowly faded with the ashes of his and Hux’s affair--seems now entirely lost. If he were wearing the mask, Hux would wonder if the speech were even coming from him at all.

His legs are spread too far apart, and he shifts his weight awkwardly between them at intervals. At the same time, he’s somehow also hunched slightly forward, shoulders tight, as if trying to compensate for the extra space he’s taking up horizontally. His hands clench and unclench at his sides, a telltale nervous tic.

He alternates between staring Hux in the eye and checking the floor between his boots. With every dip of his head, a lock of hair slips from behind his ear to partially curtain his face, and every time, he reaches back up to replace it. It’s terribly distracting. Or it will be. For the galactic audience.

It takes Hux a moment to realize Ren’s finished.

More precisely, it takes Ren prompting, “No feedback, Grand Marshal?”

Hux blinks, ordering his thoughts. “I have no complaints about your intonation or expressions,” he says at last, slowly. “The oral part of your delivery is quite good--”

Hux pauses as Ren’s posture shifts again at that--the set of his shoulders straighter and more natural; he’s clearly buoyed by the praise. It feels almost wrong to keep going, when he looks so damn pleased with himself, in contrast to his previous discomfort.

Hux, though, has a particular talent for necessary evil. “However,” he says, “there’s more to public speaking than merely _speaking_ . I’d like you to go through it again, but this time keep your hands and head _still_ , roll your shoulders back, and for stars’ sake, close your legs.”

Hux regrets the lattermost phrasing almost instantly, but it seems to bounce off of Ren, who steps both feet in so his heels nearly touch, and holds his fingers carefully limp at his sides. To his credit, he isn’t hunched anymore; his shoulders are so far back, he looks like he’s trying to show off his chest.

“No,” Hux says, “you want to look natural.”

“Nothing about any of this is natural,” Ren returns, without moving.

“Well, pretend it is. That’s the secret to this.” Hux sucks in a careful inhale. “It isn’t difficult, you’ll want your feet shoulder-width--”

Ren shuffles his feet outward again. Too far, though one of them is--somehow--angled inward.

“ _No_ ,” Hux repeats, more tersely. “Just line them up with your shoulders. Don’t overthink it.”

“You’re making me overthink it,” Ren mutters. He shifts his weight without actually moving.

Hux splays his hand tautly across his thigh. “It really isn’t _difficult_ , R--Supreme Leader.”

Ren doesn’t remark on the near-slip, but he does look up at it. “Come show me then,” he says, with some frustration.

The _child._ He can’t listen to instructions, so he requires a kinetic demonstration. Typical.

“Very well,” Hux sighs, and stands. The room has warmed up, so he sheds his greatcoat and shucks his gloves for freedom of movement before walking the three steps that put him chest-to-chest with Ren.

Hux looks him up and down, from vivid scar to tight shoulders to crooked feet, and sighs again.

“Well?” Ren says, after a moment. “Aren’t you going to fix me?”

Hux wets his lip, then nods. “Shoulders,” he says, first, and reaches up to adjust them, a hand at the juncture of each of Ren’s collar bones and its corresponding bicep.

The muscle is solid, unmistakably powerful even through Ren’s layers. Hux presses down experimentally, and finds Ren relaxing under his touch, falling back into his usual easy posture.

“Just...natural,” Hux reiterates, running a hand down each arm as if to straighten them, or freeze them in place.

“What else?” Ren says, voice soft and low. Appropriate for the mere centimeters between them, nothing more.

Hux can feel his body heat, radiating off of him like a plasma weapon, and it’s a damn good thing Hux took off his coat.

“Your lower half,” Hux says. “You’ve got your knees locked right now; we can’t have that. You’ll want to align your shoulders, hips, and feet.”

Hux places his hands on Ren’s shoulders again, but instead of moving them down his arms, he slides them down Ren’s sides to rest at his hips. Ren straightens accordingly, fitting into Hux’s grip.

“Good,” Hux admits, adjusting to, “Better, anyway.” He steps fractionally backward to survey his work, and Ren’s right hand balls up again at his side, thumb curled into his index finger and rubbing at the joint.

“Don’t do that.” Hux nods to the fidgeting hand.

“Do what?” Ren looks down, as if realizing, but doesn’t uncurl his fist. “I mean, it’s natural.”

Hux snorts. “We don’t want _that_ natural.” He closes the distance between them again, and without thinking reaches back to Ren’s side, and very carefully, straightens each of his long fingers one by one, until they’re hanging limp at his side. Oddly, Ren’s breath hitches audibly when he breaks contact.

“Good,” he says, looking back up to study Ren’s face. Ren glances away, angling his chin back down and to his right, into the hair-mussing head dip that plagued his delivery.

Of course he does. Leave it to Ren to ruin a thing right as it’s on the cusp of perfection.

“None of that either,” Hux snaps, and reaches up impulsively to adjust his face. He cups Ren’s right cheek, low enough to cover his jawline and tip his chin up and leftward, until Hux is holding his face straight, and his eyes meet Hux’s own.

His pupils are dark and blown, blotting out the amber of his irises. His gaze holds something of the softness it did in the still earlier this week, something both fearful and imploring, yet darkened by the undeniable spark of _need_. (Need of what, Hux isn’t sure.)

He’s perfectly still under Hux’s touch. Perfectly pliable. Someone’s breath catches, and it might even be Hux’s own.

He couldn’t move his hand if he tried, so it lingers on Ren’s cheek, thumb brushing across the puckered ridge of the scar almost involuntarily, as if drawn magnetically to the imperfection. He runs the pad of his thumb slowly across the spot, twice; Ren flinches under his touch, eyelids fluttering shut, for a moment.

Hux traces it again. “It isn’t that bad, you know.”

“It isn’t about the mark,” Ren returns, something unbearably defeated in his tone. He moves his head slightly, nose dipping as if he’s about to nuzzle into Hux’s hand or something, but he stops suddenly, readjusting. That isn’t disappointing.

“Still,” Hux says, and takes another moment before dropping his hand.

As he breaks the contact, Ren compensates, hips canting forward, pressing against Hux line for line. It takes Hux’s breath, though it’s nothing like a blow. His pulse accelerates; he wonders if Ren can feel his heart hammering through both their layers.

Ren maintains eye contact, almost a challenge. Hux defies him by breaking it, noting the angle of Ren’s hips--it’s off again, unsuitable. He lifts his hands to them again, both to straighten Ren’s trajectory, and push him back, but the muscle is taut there, too, and moreover, his thumbs have framed the base of Ren’s cock.

Something vile and carnal in him realizes it would be so easy. He could reach across, palm Ren’s length through the tunic, reach beneath, take him out, stroke him to hardness, stroke him till inhuman noises rise from his throat, till there are tears in his eyes, and he’s coming apart in Hux’s hands.

“Grand Marshal.” Ren’s voice is low again, with an undeniable note of amusement. Layered over, though, with something Hux would otherwise recognize as _fondness._

Hux returns to himself, blinking, forcing himself to meet Ren’s gaze. Red blotches prickle across his face. Between his own treacherous mind and the press of Ren’s body, his filling cock has tightened his briefs and tented his jodhpurs.

Hux inhales once, slowly, rhythmically, then with effort, makes to tilt Ren’s hips as he intended. Ren doesn’t allow it, merely steps forward again, pushing them impossibly closer, even as Hux drops his hands.

Ren dips his head again, this time with clear intent. His lips are nearly close enough to brush Hux’s left ear. “Let me suck you off,” he murmurs.

“What?”

“You need it.” Ren draws back enough to meet Hux’s eyes, then glances down with a smug expression. “You have a meeting in fifteen.”

Hux straightens as best he can, but doesn’t pull back. “I can take care of myself, thank you.”

“I’ll be faster.” Ren’s looked back up, and unbearably, he wets his lips with his tongue.

Hux would hit him if it weren’t for how those lips look, spit-slick and plush and parted invitingly. Hux’s cock twitches, and it’s a hopeless cause. He can already feel a wet spot soaking through his briefs.

“I’d--” Hux starts, breaking off Ren’s hands are already exploring, teasing up the hem of his tunic, working up to toy at his fly. “I’d like to see you prove that,” he manages.

Ren just smirks in response, as if that could conceal the raw and lonely need in his eyes. The apology.

Hux grabs his tunic by the hem, bunching it awkwardly at one side to allow Ren full access to everything below his belt.

It’s ridiculous. Ren’s going to just... _blow him_ , both of them fully clothed, in the middle of his bedroom floor, at 1420 hours. (They’ve done worse, of course, but not in a long time.)

(Not since Crait.)

(Somehow still too long.)

Hux considers asking if he could at least sit down first, lend this some semblance of dignity, but the words stick in his rapidly drying mouth. His tongue clings to his palate when he tries to speak, when Ren strips off his gloves and flings them to the floor, to palm bare-handed at his groin. His cock fills, stiffening, straining at his briefs.

Then Ren undoes his fly, takes him out with a reverence that matches neither his smug mouth nor his desperate eyes. Hux’s cock curls up pink toward his stomach; he can feel his heartbeat there. He tightens his grip on the bunched tunic, knuckles whitening as Ren sinks to his knees.

Ren’s fingers are pinpoints of heat as he guides Hux’s cock toward his mouth. They disappear as he lets go, replaced by the rush of Ren’s tongue teasing his slit, then sliding up to the sensitive skin under his foreskin.

“Fuck, Ren,” he says, clipped and breathy, already past titles.

Ren pulls off, mouthing up his shaft, lips tickling the skin in faint brushes that make Hux’s nerves ache. “Good so far?” he murmurs, clearly more a plea for reassurance than truly concerned with Hux’s pleasure.

“Fuck yes,” Hux says, regardless, impatient.

(It’s been too long.)

Ren draws back down, then wraps his lips around the head of Hux’s cock again, this time swallowing him to the base. His mouth is warm, and his tongue moves adeptly. Ren’s cheeks have hollowed out, and his nose is nearly buried in the red thatch of hair at Hux’s base.

Hux can’t help it. He’s fucking into him, hips bucking forward, lips babbling something inane. It’s like watching a holoporn, or a past version of himself, head reeling, ears ringing. It should last longer than the two pushes it takes for him to come down Ren’s throat.

Ren swallows all of it before pulling off, and licking his lips again, obscenely. He stays on his knees for a moment, panting.

“Thank you,” Hux says, as crisply as possible, once he’s recovered his own breath, his own sense of bodily existence. There’s nothing else to be said.

He adjusts his softening cock back into his briefs, straightens his jodhpurs, lets go of his now-rumpled tunic and straightens it. By now, Ren’s stood back up, still looking breathless, lips swollen and damningly red.

Hux’s gaze wanders below Ren’s waist, to the tenting of his tunic, and part of him knows he should offer to return the favor.

But he has a meeting to get to, and he’s feeling far too much himself again--feeling drained and exposed--to get on his knees for Ren, even to stroke him standing, if it means constantly asking what feels right.

His datapad chimes with a ten-minute reminder, and he realizes his hands are shaking. He inhales deeply, and Ren watches him. To his credit he asks for nothing-- _says_ nothing. Makes no move to press his body back onto Hux’s. He gnaws his lip and curls one hand to fidget at his side.

“Thank you,” Hux says again, then turns to collect his coat and gloves. At least he’s hopefully given Ren something decent to jerk off to. “Well done on the speech,” he adds, but doesn’t meet Ren’s gaze again.

 

-oOo-

 

The next two cycles pass in a flurry of final preparations for the festivities.

The _Finalizer_ is docked above Ganthel City, hanging over it like an arrowhead extension of the system’s executive seat. Hux descends periodically, for security coordination briefings and a final once-over of the address set-up on the steps of the planetary capitol. Ren accompanies him on two of these visits, but Hux makes no effort to be alone with him, and all interaction stops firmly at the line of professional collaboration. Which is fine.

Ren would ask for what he wanted, if he wanted anything else, or at least he should. Hux is for his own part too busy to navigate Ren’s emotions on top of the preparations and his regular duties, which brook no slowdown for the holiday.

And if, on the morning of Empire Day, Hux’s morning wood is more easily taken care of with the memory of Ren’s lips, then perhaps whatever happened two days ago wasn’t a complete waste.

-oOo-

The address is scheduled for 1100 local time, Ren’s arrival for 10:45. At 1015, Hux is at parade rest by the open entry hatch _Upsilon_ -class they’re taking down. A contingent of officers and a battalion of troopers have already departed for the planet’s surface to clear and establish the assembly’s perimeter.

Ren should have been here five minutes ago to ensure a timely departure, but he hasn’t so much as read Hux’s formal but pressing pings, much less responded. Hux checks his datapad a final time before excusing himself to the pilot and surrounding officers, with the promise of a timely return.

Ren’s chambers aren’t far from the hangar, but even on the short walk, there’s decidedly lighter foot traffic than usual, most of the crew either on the bridge or the ground running security, or in attendance. It’s just as well--Hux would rather not be seen rushing toward the Supreme Leader’s quarters for any reason.

When he arrives outside Ren’s door, he pauses for a moment, planning to catch his breath before pressing the comm mounted beside the entrance. However, the doors iris open while his finger is still hovering over the button.

Ren’s frame fills the entrance, dressed in less tattered robes than usual. And masked.

_Shit._

“Come to fetch me, Grand Marshal?”

“Yes, Supreme Leader, but I--” Hux looks him up and down, and fuck it. He has to try. “I was under the impression you weren’t planning to wear--”

“It doesn’t work,” Ren interrupts. He takes a step back from the threshold, as if to allow Hux space to cross it. “The stuff you got for me. It doesn’t work.”

Hux enters the room with a single, deliberate step, and the doors whir shut behind him.

“What do you mean, it _doesn’t work_?”

“I mean that it doesn’t work. It doesn’t cover anything. The makeup looks worse than the mark, so I had to put the mask on over it.”

Hux bites back a snide remark about how nothing could possibly look worse than the scar as soon as he realizes it would be a lie. He purses his lips for a moment, staring hard into the visor. Ren’s eyes are in there somewhere.

“Are you wearing it right now?” he asks finally, in the patient tone he reserves for the youngest trooper cadets.

Ren stiffens. “Yes.”

“May I see it?”

Ren says nothing in response, but reaches up to the helmet’s clasps. The resulting hiss is far fainter than it was when the vocoder was intact; Hux is fairly sure he only hears it because he’s expecting it.

Ren removes the mask and lowers it to his side, exposing neatly combed hair with just a bit of product, slightly dry skin, and a dark, caked line of uneven foundation and concealer stopping halfway down his right cheek. It looks like he both tried to use every product Hux gave him at the same time, and as if he threw them all down in disgust, giving up entirely once he’d gotten that far.

Hux just hopes they aren’t spattered across his mirror. Hux is going to need them. He still has fifteen minutes, twenty-five at a stretch.

“Where’s your ‘fresher?” he asks, clipped and efficient.

“It hasn’t moved,” Ren replies. “Why?”

“Let me fix this,” Hux says, and takes a step in the ‘fresher’s direction.

“It won’t work,” Ren says, shifting as if to block his path.  But Hux keeps moving, and Ren follows. “They didn’t even get the order right. They sent you some green xeno shit.”

 _You_. As if this wasn’t for Ren himself.

“I ordered _you_ green concealer.” The ‘fresher’s lights have--of course--been left on, and Hux crosses into it, Ren still behind him. He sighs, facing Ren. “It’s to contrast the red of the mark. They cancel each other out, so you’re putting the flesh-colored stuff on a neutral canvas.”

“You could have mentioned that.”

 _I should have known I’d have to_ almost falls acidly out of Hux’s mouth, but he manages to shut up, twist his lips into a faint smile.

“Would you mind bringing a chair for yourself?” he says, without the solicitous inflection he intends.

Ren complies without a word, turning sharply on his heel with the mask still in hand.

In his absence, Hux surveys his work area. The six products, the brush, and one of the sponges, lie scattered across the white countertop, as if deposited there by a dyspeptic rathtar that had sampled a cosmetics salesbeing.

A fine dusting of foundation coats the right side of the tap, and a few angry smudges of concealer line its basin. There’s a single, fine smear of it across the mirror, which Hux clears away with one of the crumpled makeup remover wipes (also a complementary addition to the order) littering the edges of the countertop. Only the green concealer seems unharmed, lying at the far edge of the counter where it meets the wall, seal still intact, clearly tossed aside in disgust.

Hux steeples his fingers over his nose, briefly shutting his eyes and inhaling, before dropping them again. It’s apparently been _bad._

With a wary glance at the clock on the wall opposite the mirror, Hux starts tidying up. He’s barely disposed of the used wipes before Ren returns, dragging in one of the two metal chairs from his sitting area, mask apparently abandoned outside.

He sets down the chair in front of the mirror with an obnoxious clang and clatter, then wordlessly quirks an eyebrow at Hux, as if asking for permission to sit.

“Clean that off first.” Hux gestures vaguely to Ren’s handiwork, then extracts a fresh wipe and proffers it to him.

Ren takes it. “All of it?”

Hux nods curtly, then turns to grab the green concealer from the counter’s right corner. He picks open the plast seal while Ren scrubs at his face. To his credit, he’s gentle with his skin, aware how much it will redden if he’s too harsh on it.

Finally, he pauses, examines his face in the mirror, and appearing satisfied, seats himself, long legs cramped uncomfortably between the counter and the chair, despite the seat’s adequate height.

Hux should start with the primer, but there won’t be time for it to dry, not if he wants to apply two layers of concealer, plus the powder, on top of it. It shouldn’t matter. No one will be close enough to Ren to analyze the texture of his skin, and the holocams won’t have the resolution to pick up on uneven spots.

With a quiet inhale, he unscrews the green concealer, extracts the doefoot applicator, and steels himself for proximity to Ren’s bare skin. This is nothing like two cycles ago. It’s purely practical. They don’t have time--and Hux, at least, definitely doesn’t have the inclination--for anything else.

As Hux leans over him, Ren tilts head to the left, then tucks his hair behind his ear, clearing the way for Hux to work.

“Hold your head straight,” Hux says, and Ren complies silently.

Hux’s pulse shouldn’t pick up as he leans over Ren, begins dabbing the spongey point at the end of the applicator’s wand directly onto the scar. He works his way down in a fine and seamless line of sea-green dots, not touching the unaffected skin around it. He purses his lips, concentrating, dipping the applicator back into the bottle three times before he’s reached the edge of Ren’s jawline, where the scar disappears into his high black collar.

Hux turns away to cap the concealer again and grab the cleaner of the two sponges. Ren studies himself in the mirror, brows pinched.

“Please keep a straight face,” Hux chides. “It’ll pull at the makeup.”

“This looks ridiculous so far,” Ren says, peevishly, as if to excuse his expression.

“Yes, that’s why I have to blend it. And apply two more layers.”

With that, Hux leans over him again, presses the sponge gently against the green line. His knuckle brushes Ren’s eyebrow as he tries to shield it from the concealer. He blots his way down the scar, Ren’s skin warm and unexpectedly soft everywhere it accidentally meets his own. Finally, the green has blended into a cloudy and neutral white, slightly wider than the scar itself, and covering its color entirely.

“Better?” Hux says as he steps back again.

Ren angles his cheek toward the mirror this time and examines his own profile, index finger under his jaw.

“You know what you’re doing.” It must be a concession, but he says it like a simple fact.

“Well--” Hux picks up the foundation and squeezes a sizeable bead of it onto the skin between his left thumb and index finger, then sets it down and turns back to Ren. “--I have years of experience.” He dips his right index finger into the foundation, and presses a dot of it above Ren’s eyebrow.

“Of having your skin get fucked up?”

Hux should hush him for moving his jaw, but Hux is barely past his eyebrow, and awkward conversation is at least somewhat superior to awkward silence.

“Yes,” he says, and dips his finger back into the foundation. He’s under Ren’s eye now. “It remains an occupational hazard.”

He doesn’t mean it as a barb, but Ren’s jaw tightens, jarring Hux’s finger just slightly off-center. It’s nothing catastrophic--the powder will cover it in a moment.

“For what it’s worth,” Ren says, once Hux has resumed his work, “I’m sorry.”

Hux clucks his tongue, presses a dot against Ren’s cheekbone. “What _is_ it worth?”

“Anything you want.”

Something clenches in Hux’s chest at that, at how fragile Ren’s voice sounds, splintered and in danger of collapse. Hux can’t entertain that, not now. He focuses on the task at hand.

The foundation’s waterproof, but fuck, it’ll still be hard going if Ren starts crying.

“Hold your jaw still,” Hux says, and hopes it doesn’t sound too much like _shut up._

Ren acquiesces, and the silence falls between them again. Halfway down Ren’s cheek, Hux runs out of foundation, and turns to squeeze out a smaller bead of it to finish the job. It’s perfectly suited to Ren’s fair skin, but still looks brown against Hux’s paper-whiteness.

“Thank you,” Ren says, voice stronger now, more sheepish than tearful, as Hux leans over him again, “for doing this.”

Hux wets his finger again, moves toward Ren, but doesn’t touch the skin. Ren’s turned to face him, the line of pale dots and blotted concealer doing nothing for his face’s natural asymmetry. His hair is loose over his left ear, but still carefully curled behind his right.

He meets Hux’s eyes, and Hux can’t look away. There’s something quiet in his gaze, but bright, almost wistful, like the flat surface of a lake reflecting its surroundings--a mirror only, producing no light of its own.

And Hux could dismiss him, could say this is only for the good of the Order, to protect his own reputation and that of the organization he’s given his life to. He could say that, and Ren might even believe him, might stop looking at him like this, like he’s the center of the room or the ship or the galaxy entire.

But he isn’t sure he _wants him_ to stop.

“Well,” he says, as casually as possible, his face still bent close to Ren’s, “you make a lovely canvas.”

Ren colors at that, which Hux is--not prepared for. The line of makeup stands out even starker against his light flush, and it should be a clash of colors, but it isn’t.

It isn’t perfect either, but it works.

“Regardless, you don’t have to,” Ren’s voice has pitched low again, and his gaze falls.

Unthinking, Hux raises his left hand to cup Ren’s cheek, tip his chin up. He leans even closer to Ren, until their noses nearly brush. “The trouble is I want to.”

He isn’t sure which of them closes the gap between their lips, but somehow Ren’s mouth is crushed against his own, unbearably soft, chaste at first, until Hux returns it.

There’s no finesse to the kiss. The angle is poor, and Hux’s foundation-wet fingertip winds up striping across Ren’s untouched left cheek, the bead of it on his left hand catching in a strand of Ren’s hair as he works his fingers through it. Ren’s left hand rests on Hux’s right cheek, his right on the small of Hux’s back, pulling him closer.

Hux sinks almost involuntarily onto Ren’s lap, breaking the kiss long enough to straddle him and meet his eyes. They’re fever-bright now, sparking from within, and he slides his left hand up to rake his fingers through Hux’s hair, mussing the gel. Hux can feel his breath against his own lips, warm and unsteady.

“You didn’t say anything,” he murmurs, and leans closer, kisses Hux’s cheek, his jaw, his neck, slowly and deliberately. When he stops to speak, his nose brushes the skin. “You didn’t say anything, after. I thought you didn’t want this. I thought--”

“Hey,” Hux says. He cups Ren’s left cheek again, aware of the horizontal smear of foundation across it. His right is little better, smudged and speckled. It doesn’t matter.

Nothing matters, but this: Ren’s arms, solid around him where they always should have been; the lines of Ren’s face, smudged and scarred as they are; the crooked angle of his nose and the shadows his eyelashes cast in the fluorescent lighting. The need in his voice.

He kisses him again, ravenously, and Ren returns in kind, sucking and biting at his lower lip, then working his tongue into Hux’s mouth to trace his teeth, his palate.

The tip of his nose rubs against Hux’s cheek, and Hux is lost, hardening slightly despite himself. He grinds against Ren, and Ren makes a charming, startled sound in the back of his throat, then responds in kind, hips canting upward as his hand slips from Hux’s waist to his ass.

He’s begun kneading the flesh there, gently, maddeningly, when a chime resounds from the bedroom outside, at an urgent volume and frequency.

Fuck.

Hux pulls back, returning to himself, Ren chasing his lips. Hux doesn’t let him, drops his hands from Ren’s face.The chrono on the wall behind Ren reads 1045 local. Hux’s semi is history.

He swears again, aloud.

They should have already left, and Ren’s face is a mess, concealer and foundation hopelessly smudged, lips swollen and red. Hux is sure his own mouth is no better, and his hair needs smoothing down.

“Fuck what?” Ren says, voice still low.

Hux resists. “Fuck, we don’t have time to fix--” He gestures to Ren’s face. “--this.”

Ren has the audacity to smirk. “Then I suppose I’ll have to wear the mask, Grand Marshal.”

And _oh._ For Ren at least, this is a remarkably fortuitous byproduct of kissing Hux breathless.

Hux wants to slap the smugness off his face. Or kiss it. Hux’s own face prickles with heat, but he ignores it. Smiles despite himself.

(It’s been too long, and nothing else matters.)

“I will allow it,” Hux says, and tips Ren’s chin up to attention, “as long as I may personally remove it afterward.”

“In my quarters?”

“Where else?” Hux leans down for a final peck at Ren’s lips, then disentangles himself and stands.

Predictably, his own hair is beyond saving, and his mouth is a guilty crimson. He smooths it down and rubs at his lips, as if that would help. At least the mask will look worse.

Ren stands after him, and for the moment before the datapad chimes again, all is right in the galaxy: The mirror shows them side by side.

**Author's Note:**

> Title lovingly filched from [this Bruce Springsteen song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4r5xqiBl-Vs)
> 
> And the quote in Hux's signature is apologetically misappropriated from Sun Tse. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and come say hey on Twitter [here](https://twitter.com/imperialhuxness)


End file.
